


Like Driftwood

by dbhprincess



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Feelings, Hank Anderson is Bad at Feelings, Jealousy, M/M, Post-Pacifist Best Ending (Detroit: Become Human)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-18
Updated: 2021-02-18
Packaged: 2021-03-13 14:22:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29527740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dbhprincess/pseuds/dbhprincess
Summary: After floating along contentedly with Connor in the months after the revolution, Hank hits a snag when Connor develops a seemingly perfect friendship with another android. Overwhelmed by an inescapable current of warring emotions, Hank fights a losing battle against the destructive undertow of jealousy.
Relationships: Hank Anderson/Connor
Comments: 8
Kudos: 50





	Like Driftwood

**Author's Note:**

> Based on a [prompt](https://twitter.com/dbhprincess/status/1358830273396232192) from Chris. Thank you for the inspiration!

Andy the IT guy could get fucked, Hank thought, and he didn’t mean it in the sexual sense. Or, fine, he could get fucked six ways from Sunday for all Hank cared, as long as it wasn’t with Connor. As long as it wasn’t with his – Hank’s, not fucking _Andy’s_ – partner, his friend, his…

Just what should he call a smartass android who crashed on his couch, stole the affections of his dog, and simultaneously made his life messier and more bearable? Not his roommate, because that implied Connor had a room. A couchmate? Hardly, because that sounded like the descriptor for a relationship that they certainly didn’t have and that Hank certainly shouldn’t want.

Well, whatever Connor was to Hank, he had better not be more than that to Andy, because perfect Andy, with his beautiful looks and brilliant android mind, could get fucked. Just not by Connor. Not by Hank’s favorite person in the world, who was, at this very moment, resting his hand on Andy’s shoulder, leaning over him as he fiddled with Connor's terminal, and laughing and smiling at some joke of Andy’s that Hank was too stunned by jealously to hear.

Because that’s what this was, wasn’t it? This seething fury and simmering pain that had grabbed Hank by the throat and tore a hole down his chest and into his roiling gut. Hank was suddenly, violently jealous of Andy the IT guy, Connor’s good friend and jogging buddy, and he had absolutely no right to be. God fucking damnit.

He didn’t do anything about his newfound, unwanted revelation, of course, and he definitely didn’t say anything either. He just sat on his decade-old couch two nights later, with a game on TV and a whiskey glass in his hand, and waited for Connor to come back after another one of his weekly book club nights, where _he_ probably sat on one of the swanky chairs in Markus’ swanky home, probably sidled up close to whatever overpriced construction of wood and fabric goddamn _Andy the IT guy_ sat on.

Andy, whom Connor had invited to join after they had started jogging together on the mornings their schedules allowed for it. After Hank had declined his own invitation, because he thought it would be good for Connor to live at least some of his life apart from Hank now and then. Andy, whom Connor clearly wanted to spend his free time with, and who now sat with Connor and talked with him and no doubt made him laugh.

Sure, Hank made Connor laugh sometimes, but he also made Connor frown. He was a jaded, unhappy drunk, washed up on Connor’s beach like driftwood. But Connor had picked him up and taken him home with him – had taken Hank home to Hank’s home when Connor had come home with him – god he was getting too old for these late-night benders. Whatever. Connor had picked him up like driftwood and set to work, washing and scrubbing him clean from the salt and the muck and the detritus of a waved-tumbled life.

And now, here he sat, sunk once again in the wet sand at the waterline, the tide of self-pity lapping steadily at his feet. Feet to which he now stood, unsteadily, as he wiped his whiskey-wet mouth and tear-dampened cheeks. He was going to bed. Because, after a fun evening of good conversation and stimulating company, Connor didn’t deserve to come home to a drunken shipwreck strewn across his couch.

If he came home tonight, that is. After all, there were much better prospects on Connor’s horizon, weren’t there?

\-----

“Hank, is something bothering you?”

Connor was looking at him from across their joined desks, eyes soft, concerned, and a little sad.

Hank sat back in his chair, seemingly casual and nonchalant. “Other than the fact that the coffee machine in the break room has broken down twice now, and I’m getting real fucking tired of it, no. Why?”

Connor dropped his gaze and shrugged, a gesture he had recently picked up from Hank. “You’ve just seemed…distant this past week.”

Yeah, he’d seemed distant because he’d been distant, putting as much space – physical and otherwise – between Connor and himself as he could in an attempt to shore up the walls of solitude he had erected more than three years ago, when his heart had been shattered more completely than the windshield of his totaled car.

A week ago, he’d been blindsided again. He was already a wreck, so all he could attempt now was damage control. But it was a useless attempt, he feared, and one that only managed to cause more damage. The trouble was, he missed Connor, damnit. His wall of solitude wasn’t the barricade against hurt that he needed it to be; it was a barrier to his own happiness, a fortification against the laughter and connection and companionship that made each day worth staying sober for.

Now it was Hank’s turn to shrug. “I’ve just been tired, I guess. The current caseload has us running our asses off, and you know I’ve got bad knees.”

Hank’s pathetic attempt to deflect with humor did coax a small smile from the corner of Connor’s mouth, but it clearly did not deter him from his purpose.

“You work so hard and don’t take care of yourself like you should,” Connor said solemnly. “I want to invite you again to join the book club. For one meeting, at least, to try it. We’re reading an Agatha Christie novel, and I think you’d like it.” Connor paused, then continued hesitantly. “I just…I’d really like to see you spend some of your free time out of the house, away from…memories.”

And wasn’t that just another mark on Hank’s list of why Connor needed to expand his social circle. What kind of pathetic example was he, who constantly told Connor to get out there, to see what life had to offer, to make friends and memories – good memories – and discover all the amazing things life had to offer, all while wallowing on an old couch with an old dog and a death-grip on an old life that didn’t exist anymore. Connor had seen his own share of shit, experienced his own brand of trauma – an attempted hijacking of his mind included – but he was still brave enough to try, not hiding in the past, but seeking the present.

So, that’s what Hank needed to do, wasn’t it? He needed to get off his sorry ass and do something that would wipe away the sadness from Connor’s eyes, that would make Connor proud. Because when that android had woken up, he had woken Hank, too, to the hope of a renewed life and the possibilities that still lay before him. Hank had just been too scared to drive down the road of happiness again, lest it slip out from under him a second time.

Hank opened his mouth to tell Connor that okay, sure, he would come to a meeting, when Connor’s LED began flashing yellow, and he held up a hand. “Just a moment, Hank. Andy’s calling me to set up our next running date.”

And with the two words “Andy” and “date” sliding so easily out of Connor’s mouth, Hank felt himself sink back into the sand at the waterline and any momentary courage he had gathered wash away with the tide.

When Connor ended his call, he was smiling. It was a lovely, pleased smile. The smile of a man who had what he wanted. Hank was happy for him, and he hated Andy. But most of all, he hated himself, because he knew he was going to make Connor frown again.

“You made your date?” he asked, nearly choking on the word.

Connor nodded. “Yes, we’re meeting up tomorrow morning. And then we’re meeting again tomorrow evening. For the book club.” The tone of Connor’s voice ended with a question, and he looked at Hank expectantly.

Time for Hank to disappoint Connor again, then. He slouched forward in his chair and bent to his terminal. “Sorry, Connor,” he said dismissively. “I’m really not interested.”

The reverberation of Hank’s shame rang loudly in the silence that greeted that cowardly, terrible lie. From the corner of his eye, he saw Connor turn back to his own terminal and the report he’d been working on. The yellow glow of his LED reflected harshly off the screen, and Hank didn’t deserve him.

\-----

Hank stood at his living room window, watching Connor and Andy the IT guy jog away from his house in the early morning light, their heads occasionally turning toward each other in conversation, their strides synchronized like they belonged together. The coffee he sipped from the “All Bark, No Bite” mug Connor had bought him for Christmas – it coordinated with the “No Bark, No Bite” food bowl he’d gotten for Sumo – was as black and bitter as his mood. Most often, Connor met Andy somewhere away from the house for their run, but today Andy had rolled up in a sleek autocab and knocked confidently on their door. Like a date sure of his reception. Hank hated him, and he hated himself for caring.

And really, just look at him, standing in his raggedy old sleep shirt and faded boxers, staring forlornly through dusty blinds and wishing he were standing outside the stucco walls of his house and the stubborn walls of his pride. Wishing he wasn’t left at home like a dog, expected to lie down quietly and wait until his human – his android – came home again.

Hank turned away and stomped to his bedroom, setting his mug on the coffee table as he passed, deliberately avoiding the mini vinyl record coasters Connor had bought him for Valentine’s Day, even though Hank had tried to explain that that day was for lovers. Well, he wasn’t an old dog content to lie in the corner and wait. He had his own life, he could “get out there,” too. Let Connor mope at home and wait for _him_ , for once.

Five minutes of dressing later, he stomped back into the living room and grabbed his coat and the leash. “Come on, Sumo,” he growled. “We’re going for a walk.”

When he returned from his impromptu bit of exercise and a long stretch of stewing on a bench at the dog park, an hour had passed. Connor was leaning over the kitchen sink, washing yesterday’s (and the day before’s – Hank was kind of a slob, okay?) dishes, and Hank felt like a heel. Sumo must have felt like a nap, because after greeting Connor with a head bump to the leg and lapping up an entire “Android’s Best Friend” bowl of water, he snuffled and shuffled his way to his bed in the corner and took a load off.

Meanwhile, Hank just stood there, thinking about how much he both loved and hated it when Connor cleaned up after him. He wanted to tell him to stop, that Connor shouldn’t have to take care of his shit, but he held his tongue for two reasons. One, he knew that due to his programming and continuously active mind, Connor got restless and discontent without tasks to complete. Two, he was a selfish bastard who couldn’t help craving the feeling of someone giving a damn about him.

He was pulled from his self-recriminations when Connor glanced over his shoulder and smiled, small and tentative. “You took Sumo for a walk,” he said.

Hank couldn’t stop himself from replying with a deadpan, “No kidding.”

Connor ignored his rudeness. “You rarely take Sumo for a walk in the morning, and never on work days.”

Hank grabbed the dishtowel and began drying. “Maybe I decided I should start getting a little more exercise,” he retorted, far surlier than he intended.

As he dunked another plate into the soapy water, Connor’s brow furrowed in a frown. “You could have come with Andy and me. We could all walk together for half the distance you wish to travel, and then you could walk home while we continue our run. You could bring Sumo, too.”

Hank scoffed. “You guys wouldn’t want two old men slowing you down.”

Connor set the sponge down and turned his body to face him. “I wouldn’t mind, Hank, and neither would Andy.”

“Yeah, well, maybe I just don’t want to be the third wheel.” He watched Connor's light blip yellow as he undoubtedly looked up the phrase, then continued. “You two are like a goddamn synchronized swimming team out there. You don’t need me. You’ve got Andy, and he’s just perfect, isn’t he?”

And with that display of petulance, Hank tossed the dishtowel on the counter, mumbled something about getting ready for work, and adamantly ignored the confusion on Connor’s face as he exited the kitchen.

He continued to ignore the pinched look on his partner’s face throughout the day, in which Connor did not revisit their morning conversation, and Hank pretended it had never happened. Now, after an interminable round of reluctant witnesses and overdue reports, he sat splayed on the couch, a beer in his hand and a chip on his shoulder. Though he’d tried, he hadn’t succeeded in shaking his irritable mood from the morning, and he’d been short tempered and surly with Connor ever since they’d gotten home. It was book club night again – Andy the IT guy night again – which meant it was wallow on the couch while bobbing in a sea of self-pity night again.

“Hank?” Connor was kneeling next to Sumo, methodically stroking along his back, from neck to rump, waiting for his autocab to arrive. Hank recognized it for the self-soothing mechanism that it was.

He closed his eyes and sighed, making sure to temper his tone when he responded, “What?”

Connor stood and walked to the couch, hovering almost timidly near the arm, hands clasped in front of him. “I’ve been wondering something, based on certain things that you’ve said recently. Are you…are you jealous of my activities, Hank? Of my relationships?”

Was he also currently tumbling headlong into a bed of thorns of his own making? The answer to all three questions was yes, but Hank could tell an excellent lie. “Nah, I’ve got everything I could want right here." He gestured to the coach, to his beer, to the game on TV, then back toward Sumo. “I don’t need anything else.”

The pinch that formed between Connor’s eyebrows cast a bruised shadow over his eyes. “What about me, Hank? Do you need me?”

And that’s when Hank told the most convincing lie of all, though he didn’t say a word. The silence between them stretched thinner than his excuses to keep hurting Connor in order to protect himself. When Connor’s light abruptly shifted from yellow to red, Hank continued to sit quietly like the coward he was. Connor nodded once, turned on his heel, and walked out the front door, closing it just as quietly behind him.

\-----

With a start, Hank awoke from an unhappy dream he didn’t remember and probably didn’t want to. His heart was pounding, his mouth his dry, and his neck hurt like a sonofabitch because he’d fallen asleep with his head tipped back too far over the top of the couch. The TV was still on, and the noise of three guys arguing on some late-night sports talk show grated on Hank’s nerves, so he fumbled for the remote and switched it off. The living room dropped into a silence so deep that he could almost hear the pulse of his slowing heartbeats echo off the walls.

It was quiet, he thought. Too quiet. He would have chuckled at the lame cliché, but the truth of it suddenly struck deep in his chest, and it was no longer funny. Connor wasn’t home from his book club meeting. It was late – 11:39 p.m. by the clock on the mantel – and Connor was not home.

Hank lurched off the couch in an uncoordinated rush, his heart rate jumpstarted once again by a surge of adrenalin so intense it was nearly painful. Lightheaded from the rush, he pulled his phone off its charger with clammy hands and then…paused. He shouldn’t call Connor, or text him even, though he desperately wished to. Connor’s calls went directly into his brain, and what if he was…busy. With Andy. Hank need to know Connor was okay, but he didn’t need to _know_ , you know?

Indecision warred within him until he remembered that Connor had shown him once how to locate him via some GPS finder app he’d downloaded onto Hank’s phone. Their job was dangerous, they often got separated, and Connor had insisted that they each be able to ping the other’s location. Hank hadn’t argued.

So, he set aside any consideration for privacy – because fuck social niceties; this was _Connor_ he was worried about – and opened the app. He would decide what to do next once he knew Connor’s location. When the little blue pin dropped on the map and stuck into place, Hank stared at the screen in confusion. If he was reading this right – and he was, he’d lived in Detroit all his life – Connor was _at_ home; he just wasn’t _in_ home.

Hank walked quickly to the window over the kitchen sink, peered into the darkness outside, and managed to make out the slim figure of a man sitting on the end of the dock over the river at the edge of the property. His pale skin glowed in the moonlight, and Hank sighed heavily in relief. As he watched, a cloud rolled in, and the yellow-blue-yellow of Connor’s cycling LED blazed brightly against the darkened horizon. Hank sighed heavily again. It was time for him to jump in and brave the tide, to follow where it would lead, lest he be cast adrift forever.

His first hesitant steps onto the worn planks of the dock sounded with a dull thud that battled to rise above the gurgling flow of the river beneath. Connor didn’t turn to look, but his long legs ceased swinging where they dangled over the edge, and his LED stuttered, so Hank knew he had heard. When Hank reached the end of the dock, Connor finally gazed up at him for a long moment. Whether he was searching and scanning, analyzing and preconstructing, or just plain old looking, Hank couldn’t guess, because his face was an inscrutable blank.

With more effort than he’d care to admit to, Hank sank down next to him and asked, “What the hell are you doing out here, Connor?”

Connor turned his face back to the water and shrugged. “I was just thinking.”

Hank squinted at his profile. “Thinking about what an asshole I’ve been lately?”

Connor huffed. It wasn’t a laugh, not really, but it did shade in a bit of that awful blankness, sketching some of the real Connor back onto his face. “No, I was thinking about myself,” he replied, and then fell quiet, gazing down at the water below.

Above them, the clouds shifted, and the moon came out again. Suddenly, Connor pointed at a dark shape as it passed under their feet. “Do you see that? I was like that piece of driftwood once, before you came for me outside Chicken Feed. I was torn from where I came, dragged from one point to the next by the current of events around me, not knowing where I was headed.”

They hadn’t really talked much about Connor’s experience before he came home with Hank that day. Hank didn’t want to pry, and he figured that since Connor never seemed to have any problem talking, about anything and everything, he’d surely talk about the past if he needed to. But he was beginning to realize that perhaps he’d figured wrong, and he was sorry for it. As a first step toward making amends, he remained silent and patiently waited for Connor to continue.

“Markus wanted me to go with them. Did you know that? My social protocols and my part in the revolution would have been a great asset for them during the negotiations and establishment of android autonomy. But I didn’t…want that.”

Connor sighed, another expression he had learned from Hank. He turned so that their eyes met in the dark, the moonlight bouncing off the ripples of the river and lighting Connor’s soft face in an undulating caress. “I didn’t know what I wanted, really, until you stood in the cold and waited for me.”

And didn’t that make Hank feel ten feet tall and about an inch small at the same time. He owed Connor so much more than just an apology, but first things first. Without breaking eye contact, he said, “Look, Connor, I’ve been a terrible friend to you lately, and I have a lot to apologize for.”

Connor opened his mouth – no doubt to argue – but Hank staid him with a hand. “I lied earlier. When you asked me if I need you. I mean, I didn’t tell the truth,” he clarified when Connor looked confused.

Hank inhaled deeply, breathing in the scent of the river and every ounce of courage he could muster. “I _do_ need you,” he exhaled. “Con, I…I’ve been jealous as hell. You’re getting out there, just like you should…just like I _want_ you to.” He chuckled mirthlessly. “But seeing you with your friends, with other androids, I can’t help but think that they’re who you belong with. You belong with other people who are smart, and energetic, and young, and who have their whole lives left to discover and live. I’m on the downslope. Hanging around me is just going to hold you back.”

Connor reached between them and grabbed Hank’s hand, squeezing it hard enough to make him wince. “You don’t hold me back, Hank. You anchor me. You keep me from floating aimlessly along like that piece of driftwood.” He swept his arm in the direction the branch had disappeared. “And you’re wrong. I don’t need to discover my life. I’ve already found it, and it’s here. With you.”

This time, Hank knew Connor’s gaze was a searching one as perceptive eyes bore into his own, flicking between them, seeking a response Hank was too dumbstruck to give. He had just been plunged into a reality he couldn’t fathom, into the deep end of long-denied emotion, and he was struggling to tread the surface.

Hank breathed in, and out, then cleared his throat. “I guess that means that we were tossed up together on the same shore, then. ‘Cause, I…” He stopped and tried in vain to blink back a stinging wave of tears. “Shit, Con. I’m with you, too.”

Connor smiled, soft and sweet, LED a cool blue and brown eyes warm. He raised a hand to gently wipe the moisture from Hank’s cheeks. “I’m glad, Hank. But how about we be with each other inside, hm? It’s late, and it’s getting cold.”

And Hank smiled back.

As they walked side by side to the house, shoulders brushing in the dark, Hank said, “I _was_ a first-rate asshole, though, wasn’t I?”

Connor tilted his head and pointedly looked Hank up and down. He hummed. “A second-rate one, perhaps. I don’t think you could ever be a first-rate asshole. You have too much heart and not enough ass for that.”

Hank sputtered and shook his head. “Jesus, Connor. Is that supposed to be a compliment?”

“It can be whatever you want it to be, Lieutenant,” Connor replied. Then the little shit winked.

Hank grinned as he held open the back door for Connor to step through and thought that what he wanted was to be able to call Connor his partner in the romantic sense and his roommate in the literal. When he heard Connor murmur to himself, “It is a first-rate ass though,” Hank knew that his tide of misfortune had finally turned.


End file.
